


Civilian

by skyline



Category: Big Time Rush
Genre: Anonymous Sex, M/M, dive bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-15
Updated: 2011-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He really  does appreciate the superficial adoration, most of the time, but on  stifling summer nights like these, he just wants to disappear into the  crowded clubs. He has these fantasies about hooking up with a stranger,  about foreign hands creeping across his body and a mouth that doesn’t  know his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Civilian

There are days when Kendall can’t handle everyone knowing his name.  


Days when he wants to forget about his smile and his voice and his unending self confidence; all those things that have landed him on countless teenage girls’ walls. Days when he wants to revert back to the Midwestern hockey player, the skilled athlete with a dream.

Days when he just wants to be _normal_. 

Everyone knows his name, but not everyone knows who he is. The whole world knows he likes hockey, but there’s only a handful of people who know that he’s good enough to have gone pro. The whole world knows he likes waffles, but there’s only three or four who know he likes to smother them with whipped cream and strawberries and syrup. Yet strangers see his face and listen to his interviews and think they can see what lies inside of him. It’s startling, how angry that makes him, sometimes.

He doesn’t usually get the opportunity to express it, to ever act like an actual human being between touring and working in the studio; the countless talk shows and magazines that want a piece of him and his three best friends. Free time is a luxury now. When he has it, he usually spends it sleeping or at the rink, trying to remember the things that make him Kendall Knight. 

Because it’s gotten so bad that occasionally even he forgets. 

He really does appreciate the superficial adoration, most of the time, but on stifling summer nights like these, he just wants to disappear into the crowded clubs. He has these fantasies about hooking up with a stranger, about foreign hands creeping across his body and a mouth that doesn’t know his name. 

Miracle of all miracles, tonight Gustavo lets him go. Something about dogs and barking and- well, Kendall doesn’t really listen to the reason. He bolts so fast that Logan, Carlos, and James are left staring at the dust he stirs up in his wake. 

He goes to the shadiest bar he can find; far enough into the ramshackle, dangerous part of city that even the hipsters don’t dare to enter. The place is populated by some tough looking guys with tattoos, a handful of rowdy college kids and some old time alcoholics. Kendall props himself on a stool, baseball cap tilted low over his eyes, clutching a glass of beer and thanking every deity he can think of for this blessed night off. 

It’s been so long since the last one that he’s not even sure he knows what do with himself. 

Someone else makes the decision for him. Kendall feels a mouth against his shoulder, close to the line of his tank and the place where his collarbone meets muscle. He doesn’t react, doesn’t turn to look and see who it is. It’s just like his fantasies. 

He imagines it could be one of those tattooed dudes; maybe the guy with the low slung jeans and the thing that looks like Satan on his bicep. Or maybe it’s one of the college kids; a drunken frat boy looking for a night of nameless good times. 

Kendall is down with that. 

He likes the way his ear is being nipped at, the scratch of facial hair and the rumble of laughter deep in another human being’s chest. He likes the kisses hot and wet against his neck and the way he can arch into them without fear of reprimand. He likes the anonymity of dark, seedy bars and the sweat of his glass against his palm. 

He’s barely had more than a sip, but when he’s instructed, “Follow me,” he obeys, letting himself be guided by a hand on his hipbone and another, gentle at his back, right towards the restroom hiding in the corner. 

They push past couples and coeds, gangbangers and girls too young to know better. They make their way past all these bright young things with smiles who barely even glance once at his face, much less twice in recognition. Nobody screams, “ _Oh my god it’s Kendall from Big Time Rush_ ,” and he’s more than thankful for it. There’s damp, thick, hard heat pressing into his ass, and he wants that more than he’s ever wanted fame. He wants to feel every inch of that cock moving inside of him. The thought of it sparks low in his stomach. 

He lets himself get manhandled into the grungy bar bathroom. The light’s a bare, flickering bulb straight out of a horror film, and the door doesn’t lock. Every visible surface is covered in peeling, faded stickers from bands that Kendall’s never heard of. The toilet’s this gaping maw of yellow-brown porcelain, filthy, with traces of vomit lining the rim. Clumps of wet toilet paper squelch beneath his sneakers, and he nearly slides through a puddle of- _something_. The sink is all rusted metal, and when Kendall’s shoved forward so that his hands rest against the flat surface, orange flakes off against his skin. 

There’s no mirror. Kendall likes it that way. 

He can feel hands palming the outline of his cock through his jeans, breath hot on his throat and tongue tracing his ear. He moans a little, leaning back into it. He lets the fingers probe through his jeans; doesn’t make a move to stop them from unbuckling his belt or undoing the front of the denim. When fingertips circle the head of his cock and a callused hand proceeds to skim down the front of his shaft, it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. 

There’s a palm against the back of his hand, fingers lacing with his and squeezing tight while the other hand works over his dick. And then Kendall’s arm is guided forwards, tilted up, back over his shoulder and there is a tongue against the pad of his fingers, a sloppy suck at each and every digit. He feels every flick of that tongue, the wet suction against his knuckles. He feels it all pulse through his blood in time with that hand stroking over him. 

And then the mouth lets go with a wet pop, their laced fingers brushing against Kendall’s neck, trailing against his jaw line until they’re probing at his own lips, and he understands that he’s supposed to return the favor. He sucks a long, tan finger into his mouth, massaging his tongue against the skin, against scars and calluses and soft flesh. 

He tries to make it feel good, to feel sexy. He nips at the skin before he lets go, and does each finger in turn until the hand is pulled from his, satisfied. 

There’s pressure pushing up against his asshole, and he thinks about the ridges and scars that line the guy’s tanned index finger when it slides inside of him, slick with his own saliva. Kendall’s hand slams back down onto the sink when a second finger follows, and then a third, stretching him too quickly for it to really be comfortable. When the fingers are replaced by an actual penis, Kendall has to swallow down the instinct to cringe away. Because even if his body isn’t ready to take it, there’s nothing he wants more. 

The way he’s entered is painstakingly slow, and it’s like he can feel all of the heated flesh inside of him from the slit all the way down to the base. He tries pushing back, building up a sloppy rhythm of his own until he feels hands smoothing down his side, trying to calm him, trying to convince him to slow it down. 

There’s a mouth sucking hard at his shoulder. Tomorrow he’s going to have a mark, a big red-blue bruise that will explain to the world exactly what he’s been up to. But he can’t focus on that. Most of his attention is centered on the huge hands on his hips, on the way the other man’s thumbs are pressing into the ridges of his lower spine with every thrust like he’s trying to force the air from Kendall’s lungs and make him feel it in his bones. Things are starting to speed up, just a little, but it’s a change in angle and the soft grunt in his ear that makes Kendall grip the sink top harder, knees going weak. 

He’s coming apart here in this filthy, hot mess of a bathroom in the middle of Los Angeles, the noise from the crowd outside pressing into his ears and the boy behind him pressing hot and electric against his prostate. 

It’s like his entire body’s being unlaced, like everything he is, like everything he’s ever felt is about to flood out into the arid night. He runs with it, wanton, grinding back in an attempt to fucking impale himself on the head of the cock that’s burning inside of him like starlight. He wants to remember this, to remember the way his orgasm is building in his fingertips and his toes, to remember the way it’s creeping up his thighs with every slap of skin against his ass. 

He reaches back around, twining his fingers in soft hair. There’s a lick from the nape of his neck up into his hairline, and Kendall arches into it, into the warm wet mouth and the heat he’s sheathed around, the tight feeling in his balls that means he’s going to come. He feels the prick of sharp teeth against his skin, hears this grunt that’s almost pained, and then, “ _Kendall_ , fuck-“ And one of those hands is reaching around to pump against his dick once, twice. 

It’s all he needs. He sees black, even though his cum is painting the porcelain sink surface whiter than it’s seen in a long time, his voice a shout that pierces the air. Behind him, he can feel his partner losing all rhythm, shuddering against his back and it’s a deluge inside of him and a chant of, “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

Kendall stays there for a minute, pinned between a body and the sink and sort of basking in it all before declaring, “The door is unlocked.” 

He cranes his face around to look at James, sweaty and disheveled, a cocksure smile on his lips. He says, “Dude, you’re the one who keeps choosing increasingly disgusting places for this shit. It’s wreaking havoc on my hair.”

He looks like he wants to finger a limp lock, but then makes a face at the rust coating his fingers and thinks better of it. Instead he extracts himself from Kendall, and it’s a moment of soreness than he shakes off with a wince. 

“Your hair looks great,” Kendall says, ruffling it just to piss James off. “But what’s up with the mustache?”

James pouts. “I’m incognito.”

Kendall grins, leaning in and ripping the _costume_ off his upper lip. James makes this indignant noise that he ignores, circling his arms around his neck and going in for a kiss. 

“You knew it was me.”

It’s not a question. 

“You talked. I’m supposed to forget what your voice sounds like?”

James swears. He always forgets that part. He’s been trying to hound out a way to find a connection between Kendall’s kink for sex in public places and a proclivity for one night stands with random strangers for ages now. Kendall has tried a million times to explain that he’d never act on those fantasies. He doesn’t want them. Not really. He just likes the illusion of it. 

And Kendall doesn’t know how to tell James that he _always_ knows when it’s him, not from his voice or his smell or the scar on his finger from that bike accident when he was six, but from the way he touches him. Every single time, those fingers on his skin are as familiar and welcome as his own. 

“One of these days, we’re going to have a nice, normal date.”

Kendall wrinkles his nose. He wants to be normal so badly on stifling nights like these, when work’s gotten hard and his schedule is tearing him down. It almost makes him want to up and quit the singing, to fade back into anonymity. To live out his fantasies. 

But that has never been an option for him. It never will be, as long as he’s at James’s side. 

Wanting and needing are two different things, after all, and Kendall _needs_ James like the air he breathes and the songs he sings. James is the one person who always remembers who Kendall is, even when he forgets. And James doesn’t really know how to do normal. 

He can’t help it, but he always makes everything extraordinary.

  


  


  
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End file.
